


like an atmosphere around me

by mardia



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Arsenal FC, Emetophobia, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:21:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21854416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mardia/pseuds/mardia
Summary: Peter's sick and watching a football match, and Nightingale keeps him company.
Relationships: Peter Grant/Thomas Nightingale
Comments: 17
Kudos: 188
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	like an atmosphere around me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Noxnoctisanima](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noxnoctisanima/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, noxnoctisanima! I really enjoyed your prompt of Peter and Nightingale getting to know each other better in a romantic setting, and I hope you enjoy it! (Apologies for the extended soccer/football talk, but Peter as a hapless Arsenal fan was too much fun for me to resist.)
> 
> Title comes from the Florence + The Machine song How Big, How Blue, How Beautiful.

When I heard footsteps coming up the staircase to the tech cave, I vaguely assumed it might be Molly, coming up with more tea and toast for my still-rebellious stomach. Mostly though, I was involved in weakly yelling at the Arsenal defenders for being utter and complete shit, a long-standing tradition with me at this point whenever I was watching Arsenal matches. 

But when the door opened, it was Nightingale coming in, carefully balancing a tray laden with yes, tea and toast and crackers. "How do you feel?" he asks sympathetically. 

I lifted my hand, waving it back and forth in a so-so gesture. "Haven't been sick all morning, so that's something." Despite my words, I must have looked pitiful enough still (what with lying down on the couch with a blanket pulled over me, and having been vomiting my guts out over the past 24 hours thanks to a truly _wretched_ bout of food poisoning) that Nightingale gave me a politely skeptical look, before coming forward to set the tray in front of me on the coffee table.

I looked at the toast and groaned. "Don't think I can eat yet."

"Try it when you're ready," Nightingale offered. Just then, one of the Man City strikers has another shot attempt that nearly goes in, and the roars and groans from the TV momentarily made him jump and turn around to see what was happening. He took note of the scoreline, and the fact that there were still over 60 minutes left in the match, and turned to me. "Are you sure watching this will make you feel better?"

I lifted a hand in the direction of the TV, where Manchester City were cheerfully repelling another toothless Arsenal attack. "At least the state of play matches my physical condition."

Nightingale just quirked an eyebrow at me, but went to sit on the couch, lifting up my feet and setting them down on his lap, a hand casually curled on my ankle. 

"I never asked what got you into supporting Arsenal Football Club," Nightingale asked thoughtfully after a moment. 

"Most people I knew supported them when I was growing up," I explained. "They were successful, they won things--back then at least, it made sense. And now I'm stuck here in my suffering," I said next, mournfully, and Nightingale just chuckled. 

I wrinkled my nose a little bit in consideration as I added, "Also I'm pretty sure I had a crush on Thierry Henry growing up."

Nightingale grinned at me. "A debonair man, you had good taste."

I blinked, surprised. "Wait, you know who Thierry Henry is?"

"I know things," Nightingale protested, and I narrowed my eyes at him skeptically. Which was a tiny bit unfair, if I was honest--Nightingale's general knowledge of things from the past, oh, fifty or so years certainly had _gaps_ in it, but it wasn't totally blank. It was kind of like playing Russian Roulette in conversation, minus the gun and the threat of death, obviously. 

"Mum's always been a little bit disappointed that I turned out to be a Gooner, I think," I added, changing the subject as I turned to look back at the TV, where Arsenal were lining up for a corner, which just turned to nothing. "She swears she's a neutral, but really she's supported Liverpool ever since the John Barnes days."

Nightingale grinned, his thumb moving in soothing circles on my ankle as he said, "That's right, I forgot your mother is the sporting fan in your family." He paused, and then added, "Do you think she'd appreciate tickets to a match? As a Christmas present, I mean."

It was only October, there was still plenty of time before needing to plan for presents. But I understood it, I thought--now that we were, as Nightingale put it, "romantically entangled", Nightingale wanted to make sure he kept my parents' approval, which in my family, meant my mum's approval. He had nothing to worry about, Mum adored him just fine, and after that dinner we'd had where she'd dragged him off to the tiny balcony of their flat and had a very long talk with him that I still feared involved the word "grandchildren", she'd carried on as usual, treating him no differently than she'd treated any other girlfriend I'd dragged up the nerve to bring home.

"Probably not," I said to him. "She's always preferred watching matches on TV, says it's easier to follow the action." I was still tired and a little out of it from the food poisoning, which is why I added thoughtlessly, "Plus there was that business with my uncle Tito in the 80s, that pretty much put her off live football matches for good."

I didn't realize just how odd that would sound until Nightingale looked at me and asked, reasonably enough, "What happened with your uncle?"

Oh, right. I grimaced, but there was no option really but to keep going through. "Went to a Chelsea match and got beaten up by arsehole racist hooligans. Took a kick to the head, ended up spending weeks in hospital." My hand twitched to my forehead, instinctively, and I finished with, "He's still got the scars on his head."

Nightingale was quiet for a moment, hearing that. I relaxed a little, appreciating that he didn't rush to assure me how terrible that was (like I didn't know already) or how it shouldn't have ever happened (agreed, but it did happen, and to a lot more people than just to my uncle). At last Nightingale said, "I see why that put her off attending football matches in person, then."

"Yeah," I agreed. I looked at the TV, and keeping my gaze there made it easier to share next, "The first time I went to an Arsenal match in person--a mate of mine had scored cheap tickets--my mum lectured me for ages about staying safe, keeping out of trouble, coming home straight after. It was the most worried I'd ever seen her--at least until I joined the Met, anyway."

I paused before adding, in a joking tone, "And now I'm a wizard and a cop, so her blood pressure's just through the roof."

Nightingale picked up on the mood shift, and thankfully followed me right in, like I knew he would. "You see now why a proper present from me is required."

“She usually just wants cash, though,” I offered, considering the problem for real this time. “Maybe you could get her perfume or something.”

“Mm,” Nightingale says, thoughtfully. “I’ll take it under advisement.”

Which probably meant he was going to end up buying some ludicrously expensive bottle of perfume that was normally reserved for the titled rich, movie stars, and Russian oligarchs. But I wasn’t too worried—Nightingale had good taste, and my mum would like whatever he got her.

And it was nice, knowing this would still be going at Christmastime, that I could rely on it, on Nightingale.

My train of thought was unhappily interrupted when City went and scored another goal, and like that, Arsenal were down 3-nil before halftime. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I moaned in despair. “Where were the defenders? Were they sleeping with their eyes open?”

“I actually think they were,” Nightingale replied, which was just a fucking disgrace when even _he_ , a self-avowed fan of rugby and not much else, could see that. 

When halftime mercifully arrived at last, Nightingale managed to coax me into sitting upright and drinking at least _some_ of the tea and nibbling on at least _some_ of the toast. He might’ve used some medical terms I’m sure he got from Dr. Walid, but it still worked. 

“You think Molly’s gloating?” I murmured, a hand pressed protectively over my stomach as though it would revolt at any moment--which was still possible. “Bet you anything she’s thinking that at least when we eat at home, _she_ never gives us food poisoning.”

“I’m sure she’s not gloating,” Nightingale replied, which wasn’t a total denial, I noticed. 

“Mmpf. I’m not convinced.” But my eyes were falling shut despite myself, I hadn’t gotten much sleep last night. 

Nightingale noticed, of course, carefully tugging me towards him so that my head was resting on my shoulder, my weight falling along his side. “You need your rest.”

“The match,” I mumbled, but without much heart in it. 

“I’ll wake you if there’s a miraculous comeback,” Nightingale said. 

There wasn’t, of course, but I didn’t regret it as much as I might have, in other circumstances. My stomach was finally settled with tea and toast, the blanket was warm around my legs, and Nightingale was a solid presence against my side that pressed a soft kiss to my temple as I dozed, and who would be there when I finally woke up. 

Not much to regret at all, really.


End file.
